


the hand that holds the knife

by asael



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Retainer Swap, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26239129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asael/pseuds/asael
Summary: When his lord is threatened, Hubert will do whatever it takes to ensure his safety, even if he knows Claude will not approve of his methods. What use are morals, when the life of the only person who matters is at risk?
Relationships: Claude von Riegan/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 22
Kudos: 137
Collections: 2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang





	the hand that holds the knife

**Author's Note:**

> This is a retainer swap AU written for the Ultra Rarepair Big Bang! My partner was [Kels](https://twitter.com/antiquecipher), please [admire her incredible talent!](https://twitter.com/antiquecipher/status/1300897139891998720?s=20) She gave me a ton of support and made writing this fic and participating in the Big Bang a total joy. ♥

The volume of the roundtable was rising rapidly. Hubert stood to the side, as the other aides and retainers were doing, though none dared to stand near him. His attention was only peripherally on them - nearly all of it was on the lords themselves, deep in discussion that could only charitably be described as _spirited._

“We’re wasting our time and resources!” Gloucester proclaimed, his face red, barely restraining himself from shouting. “Faerghus has fallen. We’ll be next, unless we ally with the Emperor. You’re fools if you don’t see that.”

Lord Goneril slammed his hand against the table, and he _was_ shouting. “Faerghus is fractured, not fallen. Gautier and Fraldarius forces are still resisting - they’re by no means giving in yet, and neither should we! If anything, they deserve our aid!”

Hubert’s eyes flickered to Claude, who sat at the head of the table with a careful expression of interest. Not one bit of anger showed, though Hubert, who had studied Claude more thoroughly than any book, could see the signs of strain. It was in the set of his shoulders, the curve of his lips. His eyes.

He wondered if Goneril knew that Claude had already sent aid to the resistance in Faerghus. Not under the Alliance banner, no - not even under the Riegan banner. It had been a ‘chance meeting’, a stray merchant who was so taken by the rebels that he provided weapons, food, and medical supplies free of charge. All funded by Riegan gold, though the line in the ledger read _farming equipment_

Anyone would be forgiven for expecting the Riegan farmlands to have a bumper crop in the coming harvest.

But no, Goneril didn’t know - he was incapable of keeping secrets, for all that he was one of lords most likely to support Claude’s positions. He was honest and honorable and loud, and he loved his daughter desperately. He also believed that the Almyrans were a greater threat than Edelgard was, and that made him easy to manipulate. But anything he knew, Gloucester would quickly know, and it was obvious Gloucester had no idea of Claude’s quiet support of the rebels. If he did, he’d certainly have used it as ammunition already.

“Our course so far has been neutrality,” Lord Edmund said. He spoke rarely in roundtable meetings, his main interest being protection of his own lands - which were currently threatened by neither Almyra nor Adrestia. “I see no reason why we should change that.”

“What a shock,” said Gloucester, sneering down his nose at Lord Edmund. “You would have us all hide in our castles until the Imperials burn them down around us. They will clearly win this conflict, and if we wish to have any hope of retaining what we have, our only choice is the Empire.”

“We might keep our lands,” Claude said with a smile, “but we wouldn’t keep the Alliance.”

The table erupted into shouting then, Goneril proclaiming his refusal of any course that might dissolve the Alliance, Gloucester insisting that they could negotiate their independence. Edmund scowled in his chair and Ordelia tried, but failed, to get a word in edgewise.

By the time the meeting ended for dinner, nothing had been decided. Which, of course, was what Claude had wanted.

It was masterful, really, the way he played them. Hubert could only admire it - that, and be amused that none of them ever seemed to realize it. The Alliance roundtable had always been fractious, but now that Claude had taken up the position of Duke Riegan, he used that to keep them from making any stupid moves. Better they argue with each other than form a coalition that might not fall in Claude’s favor, after all.

His sole goal, Hubert knew, was to keep the Alliance free, neutral, and as peaceful as possible. It was not a simple thing at all, especially not with Gloucester chomping at the bit to defect to the Empire. It wore on him, and Hubert could see the marks of it even if no one else could. But that was as it should be - Hubert had sworn himself to Claude long ago, and made it his both his work and his honor to study Claude until he knew the man better than anyone.

After dinner, he collected a tray of tea and various snacks and went to Claude’s room. He knocked quietly, but did not wait for Claude’s response, knowing there was a decent chance that Claude was buried too far in work to bid him enter. He always heard someone knocking - he was too perceptive to miss something like that - but he did not always respond.

Just as Hubert had expected, Claude sat at his desk, absorbed in a letter. Hubert frowned at the mess on the desk. A stack of books balanced precariously on one corner, and nearly every other surface was taken up with letters and notes and other assorted papers, haphazardly arranged in a manner that had no resemblance to order. Atop them lay ink bottles and quills, an empty teacup from the night before, and a few small trinkets that Hubert knew were gifts sent by various far-flung friends.

Claude did not allow any of the Riegan servants to touch his desk, not even to retrieve an empty cup. Even though Hubert knew he never left anything sensitive out, still Claude was too cautious to allow someone who might be in the pay of one of his enemies go through his documents. The only people allowed to touch the desk were Hubert and Claude himself, which of course meant that the only person who ever _organized_ the contents of the desk was Hubert.

It was clear he’d let the task slip for far too long.

Balancing the tray, he hooked the empty teacup with one hand and neatly replaced it with the full one he’d brought. The plate of food took the place that the stack of books had held, once Hubert had cleared that as well. He considered continuing, simply working around the distracted man actually sitting at the desk, but when he attempted to clear a bit of paper away Claude made a face and swatted at his hand.

“No, I need that,” he said, “it’s got my notes from one of the treaties I was looking at last week.” Claude looked up then, seeming to notice Hubert for the first time, though Hubert knew Claude had most certainly been aware of him from the moment he entered the room. He considered himself privileged that Claude did not bother to put on a front for him anymore, did not look up and smile and pull on his usual mask.

He looked tired. He’d looked tired for weeks now - longer, maybe. Since the war began.

“Very well,” Hubert said, resolving to straighten up Claude’s desk while he was meeting with Lady Daphnel the next morning. “I’ve brought you some food. You must eat something before you sleep.”

 _You must sleep,_ he thought, but didn’t say it. Claude didn’t mind it when Hubert said things like that, but Hubert generally tried to limit his attempts to tell his lord what to do. Claude was much more likely to listen that way - Hubert had learned long ago that he did not take expressions of concern seriously, particularly if they happened too often.

Hubert could understand that.

Claude chuckled and shook his head, reaching out to take the cup of tea. “Yeah, yeah. You always notice when I don’t eat much at dinner. It’s annoying.”

Claude said it so easily, a teasing lilt to his words that Hubert was quite fond of. He didn’t bother to respond, however. Of course he noticed. It was his job to notice, and on evenings when the debates at the roundtable had been vicious Claude rarely ate. He would have dinner with one lord or another, a private meeting, and his mind was so focused on other things that _eating_ was not a concern. He would pick at his food for appearances, but rarely take much in. And so on those evenings Hubert always tried to bring a tray. He could do that much, at least.

“Perhaps you need more pleasant dinner companions,” he said, which drew another weary laugh from Claude. 

“No one could have an appetite with Count Gloucester sitting across from them,” Claude agreed, picking up a meat roll. “But he’s our biggest threat right now. If he defects to the Empire…”

It went without saying. The Alliance would split in two, Gloucester bringing his loyal followers with him while the rest stayed with Claude. A wise move for Gloucester, certainly, but it would spell the end of the Alliance.

Hubert felt the words on his lips, but did not say them.

_If you would simply let me kill him._

He’d thought about it many times. He had multiple plans, most of them foolproof, most of which would not lead back to him or Claude. With Gloucester dead, his son would take his title, and Lorenz was far easier for Claude to influence than his father. It would be neat. It would solve this little problem so easily.

But they’d had this argument already. More than once. And though Hubert wished very much that Claude would change his mind, he would not go against his lord’s explicit order.

It was ridiculous indeed that so many considered Claude a ruthless schemer. All who were close to him knew that his compassion was, if anything, too deep. And Hubert was closer than anyone.

And so Gloucester remained breathing, to Hubert’s disdain.

For a moment he watched Claude eat, wondering if he would indeed sleep tonight. He knew ways to relax Claude, ways to ease the burden from his shoulders and the constantly-spinning thoughts from his mind until he slept easily, but he did not think Claude would request that of him - or accept it if he offered. When the roundtable was in session, Claude could not afford to let his guard down for a moment.

Hubert knew that, short of disobeying Claude’s orders and removing some of the more recalcitrant lords, there was little he could do that he wasn’t already doing. Make sure Claude ate and at least made an attempt to sleep, guard his secrets, watch his back.

It felt like it wasn’t enough, but it had taken some time to get to a level of trust where Claude would even allow him to do this much. Hubert had always thought himself cautious, careful, suspicious of others, but when he had met Claude on that day so many years ago he hadn’t realized that the boy’s bright smiles covered up a heart even more guarded than his own.

“I have a few meetings tomorrow,” Hubert said. “Perhaps I will have something new for you then.”

Claude smiled up at him. It was a weary smile, but a real one - Hubert had been able to tell the difference for some time now. The real smiles were the ones that were difficult to look away from. “You’ve already been a big help. Be careful, all right?”

“Of course, my lord,” said Hubert, though the concern was unnecessary. He was always careful, and if he ever wasn’t it was because that was what needed to happen. He would not lose his life until Claude’s goals had been achieved, not unless he had no other possible option. But Claude worried, and Hubert could not say he minded.

Claude returned to his work, and Hubert left the room quietly, returning to his own chambers nearby to prepare for the next day.

While Claude kept the roundtable running in circles, working day and night to ensure the Alliance’s neutrality, Hubert had his own work to do in support of that. Claude had enough on his plate already, he could not also run the sort of spy network necessary for all that they wished to do. But Hubert could, and he did, placing operatives throughout the Alliance. 

His network in the Empire was almost as robust, thanks to Hubert’s family roots there. Though the Vestras had been forced to flee the Empire after a failed coup years ago, there were still plenty who sympathized with them, who were willing to hand over information and connections to someone with a familiar name. The Kingdom was in chaos, and had been much more difficult to make inroads upon, but Hubert at least felt certain that he had enough agents there that they would be warned of any danger headed towards the Alliance borders.

He had enough so that they had been able to funnel that assistance to the nobles fighting against Cornelia’s rule, as well. But, as always, Hubert’s first priority was the Alliance.

No - that wasn’t correct. Hubert’s first priority was Claude. But Claude’s first priority in these times was keeping the Alliance together, and so Hubert had thrown himself into that fully. Should Claude decide his squabbling countrymen were no longer worth the trouble, Hubert would abandon them without a backwards glance - but that was unlikely.

And so he would meet with some of his spies and hope for information that could be used. Leverage on Count Gloucester would be best, but so far they’d had little luck. The man was pompous, full of himself, and almost certainly corrupt, but he was clever enough to cover his tracks. Still, Hubert’s network had uncovered Imperial spies, provided information that helped Claude ease Goneril further onto his side, and planted plenty of false information to confuse Claude’s enemies.

It was something, at least, and perhaps by tomorrow evening Hubert would have more. 

  


* * *

  
It did not quite go as Hubert had hoped.

His first meeting went well enough. Information on the movement of Imperial troops near the border - nothing to be concerned about, but Claude would wish to know. Likely he would ask the lord who held the nearby lands to send a patrol coincidentally in that direction. A reminder, nothing more, that the Alliance was watching their border.

The second was fruitless: nothing, and a request for extra funds to support the man’s cover. To support his gambling addiction, most likely, but Hubert granted the money this time. In the past, this man had given them two separate Imperial spies, and so he would be allowed another chance before Hubert cut him loose to the tender mercies of those he had betrayed.

But this meant that he was already in an unpleasant mood when he met the third spy.

They met in a tavern near one of Derdriu’s canals, somewhere Hubert had never been before. He rarely used the same meeting place twice. The spy was a woman who worked at one of the pleasure-houses not far from the docks. Usually she brought him news that traders passed on to her - pirates, the rising cost of grain, which companies were still trading with Adrestia. Small things but vital, the sort of chaff that he could sift through to pick out a grain or two of gold now and then.

This time, she was nervous and pale-faced. She kept her composure well, but Hubert could see her tells: eyes that shifted too quickly, hands that never quite rested. It put him on alert as well, though he was far more skilled at hiding it than she was. 

Hubert checked again to be certain that no one was close enough to hear them. He would keep this meeting short, as he always did, to minimize their direct contact.

“What do you have for me?” he said.

She took a stuttering breath, eyes flitting around the room. “There is an assassin in the city.”

There were, in fact, a number of assassins in the city, but to Hubert’s knowledge none of them were currently employed for that work. His eyes narrowed. “And?”

“He visited me a few nights ago, and he - he was proud. He talked about how his success would go down in history.”

A relative amateur, then. No experienced assassin would brag to a woman whose company he’d bought for the night. But - _go down in history_. So his target was someone of importance, and with the roundtable being held in Derdriu there were a number of possibilities.

“He didn’t name anyone. But… but he called them an upstart young noble.”

Well. That narrowed it down. Hubert felt something ugly in his chest, something angry. He kept it from his face. The woman was already frightened, it would accomplish nothing to show his anger at the mere _idea_ that someone might be targeting his lord. 

“I see,” he said, and despite his efforts the tone of his voice made her eyes widen. “Have you any idea whose employ he might be in?”

She shook her head, looking down. “I couldn’t ask. I didn’t want to seem too interested.” Then she took a breath and looked up at him again. “But I did convince him to visit me again tonight.”

Hubert let himself smile - a thin one. This woman had been a fair asset before, but now it was clear she could be a very valuable one, if she was able to think on her feet like that. Now that Hubert knew where this assassin would be, he knew exactly what to do. “Excellent. Describe him for me.”

She did, showing a fine recall of features and bearing. Useful for a prostitute, he was sure, and just as useful for a spy. Hubert made a mental note to cultivate her, to see if she could be invested in and trained more thoroughly. Most of his informants were untrained, simply selling him what information they came across, and he could always use more trained spies. He’d been hoping to place someone in Enbarr’s pleasure district in the near future, too.

After she had been paid, after they’d both left their meeting place separately and in different directions, Hubert allowed himself to truly feel the anger that had sparked the moment he’d learned someone was sending an assassin after Claude. It burned within him, cold and pure and all-consuming.

This wasn’t the first, he knew, but that made it worse.

He had not been there when Claude had been targeted before. He hadn’t met Claude until he came to Fódlan, until the former Duke Riegan had introduced them.

_This is my grandson. You will serve him, and help him become accustomed to his place._

Claude had been so young then, but already so canny. His smiles had been impenetrable, and he’d slid out from under every attempt to break past them. It had been time and patience that had earned his trust, but from the beginning Hubert had seen what he could become.

A boy that clever, that ambitious, would achieve anything he set his mind to so long as he could find the tools to do so. And Hubert could be one of those tools.

Even now, he knew Claude didn’t fully trust him. Even after those first months helping him adjust, helping him learn about the Leicester Alliance and the threads of power within it. And then Garreg Mach, where Claude had handled being thrown into the wider realm of Fódlan politics with ease, despite the obvious distrust so many had viewed him with. And then -

The war.

It was perhaps Hubert’s greatest pride, the amount of trust Claude placed in him now. When they had first met, Claude would hardly turn his back on Hubert. Though he’d played it off with a smile and an excuse every time, Hubert had seen it for what it was: a boy who had learned well not to trust anyone but himself. 

He hadn’t learned why until much later, until months had passed where Hubert did nothing but act as Claude’s loyal servant. Until he’d learned that Claude would stay up late reading well into the night, and liked it when Hubert brought him tea. Until they’d spent enough time together that, late one evening, Claude fell asleep on his shoulder after a long day of meeting nobles who viewed him with nothing but suspicion.

Hubert had let him rest, and when Claude awoke it was with an embarrassed laugh and a remark about Hubert’s bony shoulder. It had been an unintentional show of vulnerability, but the fact that Hubert had not taken advantage of it changed something between them. Slowly, Claude began to trust him. Slowly, he began to speak to Hubert more easily, tell him more truths.

And it was then that Hubert learned his lord had nearly been taken from him. Not once, not twice, but often enough that Claude could not seem to properly count the times.

“Well, I’m not sure the third poisoning counts,” he’d said, with a shrug that was far too casual. “By then pretty much everyone knew I’d built up a resistance, and had antitoxins to boot. So I think they were probably just trying to make me sick, not kill me.”

He’d laughed, as if it was in any way funny. Hubert had begun making silent lists of what he wished to do to those who had raised their hands against Claude, once upon a time. 

If only he had met Claude sooner. No one would have touched him, then. No one had touched him since he arrived in Fódlan, and while certainly part of that was because his enemies could not easily reach him, Hubert believed it was also because he was safer here. Safer with Hubert by his side, who would not hesitate to protect him in any way necessary.

Just as he would do now.

It was not difficult. Hubert made his excuses, absented himself from the castle for awhile. It was clear that the assassin would not attempt his job tonight, not if he was expecting another night with a woman. He might be an amateur, but he had any pretense of being decent he would be waiting for a moment, looking for an opening.

And that was fine. Hubert would stop him before he had any chance at that.

He knew where his informant worked, of course. It was nothing to wait in the shadows of an alleyway nearby, to wait until his target was finished. Hubert considered it a kindness, really - his informant would end up a few gold richer because he’d taken the man after his appointment instead of before. And the man didn’t see him coming, didn’t expect the tendrils of magic that drained his life and consciousness away.

It was easy. The Alliance wasn’t unfamiliar with assassinations, Hubert believed - not after Godfrey’s death. But they were not so adept with them, not so wise. Or at least the one who had ordered this attempted death didn’t truly know what they were doing.

If they had, Hubert would never have learned of it to begin with.

He did not like to think of that. Claude was strong, Claude was used to being targeted. But Claude should no longer have to think of these things, should no longer have to guard his own back. He should feel safe, should _be_ safe, and if he wasn’t -

If he wasn’t, that was Hubert’s failure.

There was a storeroom in a warehouse on the outskirts of Derdriu. Hubert had rarely had to use it before, except for a few meetings with agents that could not be seen within the city at all. But the warehouse was unused, was quiet, was private, and so that was where he took this supposed assassin.

What went on in that storeroom was not worth repeating. Hubert knew, of course, that Claude would disapprove of it - but he set that aside. Claude had a keen mind, but a soft heart. His survival was important to him, but it was not as important to him as it was to Hubert. Claude would find a way to slip from under an assassin’s knife, but he would not be willing to spill all the necessary blood to trace it back to where it had come from.

Hubert was entirely willing.

And so dark magic and the simple use of knives pulled the truth from this assassin. While Claude was in the castle, delicately balancing the Alliance so that no one would fall too soon, Hubert was in the shadows of an empty warehouse, spilling blood across the uneven stone floor.

It got him a name, in the end. Lord Dumaine. A lesser noble, and Hubert was entirely unsurprised to learn that his territory was a small one that sat neatly between Gloucester and the Alliance border. Gloucester would be representing his interests in the council, then, and if Gloucester left the Alliance then Dumaine would surely be defecting alongside him.

Hubert knew well that this might mean the plot ultimately came from Gloucester, but without proof he would abide by Claude’s command - he would leave the man alone.

Dumaine, however, did not have that protection.

Hubert disposed of the body, washed the blood from the floor and his hands, and returned to the castle. It was late - past dinner, and so he collected another tray from the kitchens on his way up to Claude’s room. Claude was at his desk again, of course, penning a letter to one of his many distant contacts, and again he barely glanced up when Hubert entered.

“I did eat a little tonight,” Claude said, sounding almost amused, if a little defensive. “Ordelia is a much more pleasant dinner companion.”

“Regardless,” Hubert said, “I am sure another cup of tea would not harm you.” And though he’d eaten, it was unlikely he’d eaten enough.

“How did your meetings go?” Claude didn’t ask why Hubert had been gone all day. He never did anymore. The trust between them had grown strong enough for that, strong enough that Claude knew if Hubert was missing it was for a good reason, and that Hubert would tell him what it was. Eventually.

Hubert told him of the troop movements, and Claude nodded, filing that away somewhere deep in his clever mind. He did not mention the agent he might soon be getting rid of - Claude did not need to know the details of how Hubert ran his spy network - and he also did not mention the woman.

Or the assassin.

“There is another lead I am looking into,” he said, and that was enough. Claude trusted him, Claude believed in his skills, and Claude had enough on his plate already. When it had all been taken care of, naturally Hubert would tell him, but there was no reason to now. Not when he was barely keeping the Alliance together - not when he’d finally stopped looking over his shoulder constantly.

Hubert swallowed down the tide of anger that rose again when he thought of that, thought of some fool threatening this man. He would not allow it. He knew already what he would do, and anger would only get in the way.

Claude was looking at him, attention drawn away from his letter and his tea and Hubert’s reports.

“Hey,” Claude said. “Everything all right?”

So few could read Hubert unless he allowed it, but his closeness with Claude had given them both insight on each other. Too much insight, sometimes. With Claude as distracted as he was by the dangerous politics of the Alliance, Hubert had thought he could slip past his notice - but he should have known better.

He weighed his choices. Lie, and Claude would know that he had lied. Tell the truth, and he might give away more than he had intended.

He chose the middle path. “I simply have many things to consider.”

Claude looked at him for a long moment. If he pressed, Hubert would tell the truth - he had long ago learned that lying to Claude would do nothing but spark distrust. Claude had been lied to too many times before, and one of the few things he had come to trust was that Hubert would not. That he would give what truth when he was able, and never directly lie.

In return, Claude rarely pressed him. If Hubert was concealing something, Claude trusted that it was not something that needed his attention. Hubert was counting on that now.

Finally, Claude shrugged and smiled, a tired thing. “All right. But make sure you get some rest, okay?” It was an echo of something Hubert had said to him so many times before, just as they echoed each other in so many things.

Hubert could always tell now when Claude was hiding something - from others, usually, because Claude rarely hid anything from him anymore. In return, Claude could tell when Hubert was hiding something, and - 

And it had been unsettling at first. It had discomfited him, but he had already sworn himself to Claude, so in the end he’d come to see it differently. 

Who else could see through him but his lord? Who else cared to? The simple fact that Claude cared enough to notice, to comment on it - Hubert had realized over time that it meant something. That _he_ meant something.

Claude rose from his chair then, and crossed the small space between them. He caught hold of Hubert’s hand to hold him in place - as if Hubert would move if Claude did not wish him to - and then stepped close.

“You deserve some rest too,” he said, a soft murmur. Then he rose to his toes, bridging the gap between them, and pressed his lips to Hubert’s.

When they were young, Hubert had kept track of the times Claude kissed him. The first time had been in this castle, weeks before leaving for Garreg Mach. It had been teasing, testing, a request for a kiss to see if he would do it. And he had, of course he had, he would never refuse Claude.

He had not been certain what it meant, but he’d been sure that Claude was equally uncertain. And so it had lain between them until Claude asked for another, and another. Until Claude coaxed Hubert into his cramped dormitory bed, for practice or for fun or to relieve a little stress. And why wouldn’t he? As different as Claude was, caution and cleverness hidden behind a smile, he was still a young man. He still had desires, had needs.

And Hubert was safe in a way other partners might not be. Hubert would never betray him, would never reveal his secrets. He gave Claude what he needed, what he wanted, just as he had vowed to do long ago. He let Claude’s wishes guide him, guide them, even when that wish was for Hubert to take control away from him for awhile. Even when that wish involved his hands around Claude’s neck.

It was Hubert’s greatest pleasure, serving his lord in this manner. Holding that vulnerability in his hands and knowing that no one else received such trust.

He bent to Claude’s lips, resting a hand on his waist to steady him. When the kiss deepened, when Claude pressed against him, Hubert allowed his body to respond - as if he could stop such a thing, with Claude so close. It would have ended there, if Claude wished it to, but instead he led Hubert to the bed and knelt between his legs.

Claude’s mouth on him was impossibly hot, impossibly good. Just as Hubert knew from long practice what his lord liked, Claude knew what he liked, and when Claude wished to use that knowledge there was nothing Hubert could do but thank whatever gods there might be. Claude knew that Hubert liked it when he made noise, that he liked it when Claude looked up at him, eyes bright and beautiful under his lashes, Hubert’s cock in his mouth.

Claude brought him to the brink so easily, pushed him over with no effort at all, and swallowed everything Hubert gave him. When Hubert reached for him, he gently pushed his hands away but allowed Hubert to watch while he brought himself off, one hand wrapped around his cock, his eyes still on Hubert.

Afterward, he drew Claude up onto the bed and cleaned them both up - something Claude always let him do, knowing how he enjoyed it. Hubert looked at Claude, relaxed and sleepy. He felt the same content weariness, and he reached out, dragging his thumb over the lovely line of Claude’s cheekbone. They were not lovers, they were something entirely more intimate, but nevertheless Claude had long allowed him this right as well.

The right to touch him gently when they were alone.

“I’ll have to leave for a few days,” Hubert said, and Claude didn’t look surprised. He only nodded.

“Travel safely,” he said. He didn’t ask Hubert where, or why, or what he would be doing. They were far beyond that. Claude’s trust in him was a priceless thing. “But if you’re going to be gone for awhile, stay here tonight.”

It was a request, not an order, but it was a request that Hubert would sooner die than deny. He removed some of his clothing and got into Claude’s bed, arranging himself carefully. Claude, half asleep already, made a murmured remark about Hubert’s boniness but it did not stop him from curling close to Hubert, pulling the finely-made sheets of his bed around them.

Then Claude slept. He was a light sleeper always, but he seemed to sleep more deeply when Hubert was there - though often that was after they’d had sex, so perhaps it was only to be expected that he would be more weary. He looked younger when he slept, all the carefully crafted smiles falling away and his sharp eyes hidden. He looked soft. He looked vulnerable.

It was another part of Claude that no one but Hubert ever saw. He could not resist reveling in it, could not resist watching Claude sleep. Hubert needed no reminders of his vows - his loyalty had never faltered - but if he ever did, this would be enough. This trust from a man who trusted no one but him.

There was nothing in the world that Hubert loved more than Claude von Riegan. There was no one in the world that he would not destroy to keep Claude safe.

  


* * *

  


Hubert left the next morning. The Dumaine holdings took a few days’ ride to reach, given their distance from Derdriu. He could have sent someone, perhaps, but Hubert had not truly considered it. He wanted to see the face of the man who had ordered Claude dead, wanted to deal with him personally.

The journey gave him plenty of time to think, to consider his options. By the time he arrived, he knew exactly what to do.

First, be certain. Hubert was not the sort of fool to act based only on the confession of an amateur assassin. He entered town anonymously, rather than travel to the keep and declare himself, and took rooms at an inn. Nothing but a simple traveler. From there it was easy - the work of a day or two, some judicious bribery, and observation.

Dumaine’s lands were frequently visited by Imperial traders. No surprise, as most of the lords bordering the Empire still traded with them despite everything. But Dumaine saw more than might be expected, and rumor placed Imperial visitors in his keep. Agents of Gloucester, too, visited often.

Names and descriptions were acquired easily, and Hubert began to see the shape of things. A minor lord who wished for more, who saw an opportunity offered by the Empire. He could entertain visitors in a way that Gloucester, higher profile and far more under Claude’s eyes, could not. And so it seemed as if he had been acting as a go-between, if Hubert’s suspicions were correct. A way for Gloucester’s Imperial contacts to pass on gold and messages, and to receive such in return.

Whether the assassin had been an idea of the Empire’s, Gloucester’s, or simply a product of Dumaine’s own foolishness didn’t matter. The Empire was out of Hubert’s reach at the moment, and Gloucester as well. It was Dumaine who would suffer for this.

He did it at night, naturally. There would be no trace of him, no sign of Duke Riegan’s dark shadow. Nothing that could ever be traced back to Claude - except a rumor here and there, quiet whispers that would only serve to heighten his reputation. So in the dark of night, Hubert went to Dumaine’s keep.

It was easy to get in, easy to make his way past the guards. They weren’t as well-trained as a richer lord’s might have been, and Hubert’s dark magic was more than enough to muffle their ears and blind their eyes. He didn’t bother to kill any of them - it would only be a waste of energy. 

Lord Dumaine was alone in his bedchamber. He was unmarried, without children, still young. His current heir was a distant cousin who was still a child, and yet he believed he was clever and dangerous enough to survive in the cutthroat waters of Alliance politics. Enough so that he threatened the Sovereign Duke. A fool was what Hubert expected to find, and he was not disappointed.

The lord of the keep awoke with a gasp when Hubert shook his shoulder. Prudently, Hubert stepped far enough away that he could not be easily caught hold of and watched while the man awoke.

“Who - what?” He was unremarkable. Just a stocky man, dark hair and pale eyes, only a few years older than Hubert himself. Hubert watched dispassionately as his eyes scanned the room, panic rising in them as he realized that Hubert was no one he knew. “Guards!” But the room was silenced, of course, and he saw the man realize it. 

“What do you want?” Lord Dumaine said. His eyes were still flicking about the room, looking for a weapon, a way out. But Hubert had ensured that there would be none. He would not leave any of this to chance.

“Good evening, Lord Dumaine,” Hubert said. “I am Hubert von Vestra.”

He saw Dumaine go still. The name was well known: an Imperial family, fallen to ruin, fled to the Alliance with nothing but their name and the goodwill of the previous Duke Riegan. Hubert’s father had passed away quickly, leaving Hubert as the sole bearer of the family name. And now, after his years at Claude’s side, there was only one thing the name _Hubert von Vestra_ made anyone think of.

Duke Riegan’s spider in the shadows, a cold-hearted man more than willing to dirty his hands for his master. A black magician, a killer. Possibly his own father’s killer, though that was a story that few knew.

“You - you are welcome in my keep, my lord,” Dumaine said. His voice was tight as he attempted to keep it from shaking. “I did not know you were planning to visit.”

Not a complete fool, then. Trying to save himself, trying to find a way out. Saying _my lord_ as if Hubert truly held a title, instead of simply being Claude’s. Trying to flatter him. Of course, it wouldn’t work.

“You ought to have known,” Hubert said, and the edges of his lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. “Surely you didn’t think you could attempt to kill my lord and not expect a visit.”

Dumaine’s breath stuttered, his shoulders shook, his denials began. Hubert waited until he’d tired himself out. 

Then his work truly began.

It was more difficult, getting answers from someone without leaving a mark on them. It required care, and magic, and specially-crafted poisons that could wrack a body with pain but leave them breathing. It required the right words at the right time, an appearance of sympathy, a possible way for the target to save themselves if only they tell the truth, tell _everything_.

Of course, there was no way out for Dumaine, but if he had not yet realized that himself Hubert saw no reason to tell him.

In the end, he got what answers there were. Dumaine had always been only a tool with delusions of grandeur. He had a few names - Imperial contacts, Gloucester contacts - but not much more. The assassin had been his idea, or so he thought, coming to him in a burst of inspiration after a long tea with Count Gloucester where he’d heard all about how foolish Claude was, how he was bringing the Alliance to ruin, how he would be the end of them all. He’d been easily manipulated, and while Hubert doubted Gloucester had truly intended Claude to end up dead, it was clear enough that he’d been working on turning lesser lords like Dumaine against him.

Hubert nodded along, and thanked Dumaine for all he had given up.

Then he placed pen and ink in his hand, gave him paper to write upon, and allowed him to spill his truths in his own words. Damning himself.

By then, they had come to an agreement. The Dumaine name would continue, the Dumaine lands would remain. His heir would be allowed to inherit - under Duke Riegan’s protection, of course. But only if he took responsibility for his actions. Only if he showed how very sorry he was.

When the letter was finished, Hubert offered Dumaine his final choice: poison, or a knife.

Dumaine chose the poison, and thanked Hubert for it. It was then that Hubert smiled once more, watching the fool who had threatened Claude’s life swallow his own death, knowing it was the only way out.  


  


* * *

  
The letter and the body were found by a servant the next morning. Her screams brought everyone in the keep running, and then it was impossible to sweep Lord Dumaine’s suicide under the rug. The contents of the letter, the confession, were passed from person to person until everyone knew, until the gossips and the spy networks were buzzing with it.

By the time the official messenger arrived in Derdriu with a copy of Dumaine’s confession, Hubert had been back for days. The letter told of his betrayal, his attempted assassination of the Sovereign Duke. It implicated the Empire and Gloucester, and its arrival threw the roundtable into chaos. The shouting lasted for hours, upended tentative agreements and old rivalries, changed the face of Alliance politics.

This part was out of Hubert’s hands. But that did not concern him - his trust in Claude was absolute, and he had known from the beginning that it would be impossible for him not to turn this chaos in his favor. And indeed, Hubert watched from the sidelines as his lord played it perfectly, spinning this attempted assassination into a thousand reasons why the Alliance must hold fast to their neutrality, turning it into clear evidence that the Empire was attempting to crush them completely.

Gloucester proclaimed loudly that he’d known of none of it, that the mention of him in the letter was nothing more than slander. His wealth and power, his secure place at the table, meant that in the end even Lord Goneril was forced to accept that at face value - but Hubert saw the way Goneril’s eyes narrowed. He saw how both Ordelia and Edmund were careful to show that their allegiances did not lie with Gloucester, but with Riegan. He saw how Gloucester had no choice but to concede Dumaine’s holdings, to sweeten the pot with trade routes and troops, in order to keep his place and wash his reputation clean of association with a traitor.

He watched as Claude cleverly and competently shifted the roundtable in his favor. His magnanimous smile when he said that of _course_ Gloucester had nothing to do with it, but perhaps he needed help overseeing his lesser lords. Ordelia’s grim-faced agreement, Goneril’s suggestion that they could all assist with this. And Gloucester with nothing he could do but grit his teeth and allow them to strip away some of his power and influence, because the alternative was losing all of it.

It was masterful, and Hubert could feel nothing but content pride as he watched Claude work. There were many reasons why he would never regret swearing himself to Claude, and this - the way he caught hold of an advantage and used it to the fullest - was one of them.

Afterward, the roundtable was dismissed. Further business was put on hold for the next session, as most important right now was ensuring that the decisions that had just been made were carried out. Gloucester left immediately, saying that he needed to prepare accommodations for the men the other lords would be sending - though of course, Hubert was certain his true goal was to be certain there was no further evidence of his dealings with the Empire.

The other lords retired to their rooms. Claude rose from his chair and smiled at the servant hovering nearby. “I’ll take dinner in my rooms tonight,” he said, and his eyes settled on Hubert. “Join me?”

Hubert bowed his head in acquiescence. 

Claude maintained a casual air, talking about nothing in particular, until they were safely in Claude’s rooms with dinner brought to them. Even then, he only asked Hubert what the chances were that he’d be able to track down a particular volume of history that Claude had been looking for, then diverted the conversation into something else he’d read recently. 

Hubert responded, kept up his end of the conversation, but he’d known from the moment Claude’s eyes met his that it was a waiting game. That all this easy conversation was a smokescreen, and behind it Claude was gathering his thoughts, coming to conclusions.

And then they were finished, and Claude pushed the plates aside. They’d had wine with dinner, but as was Claude’s habit he’d taken very little. Hubert was one of the few who knew that in fact Claude’s alcohol tolerance was fairly low, and he got giggly and foolish and relaxed in a way that he usually couldn’t afford. Back at the Academy, with Hubert at his side, Claude had indulged now and then. Hubert could not deny that the memory of a carefree Claude, head tucked into Hubert’s neck as he laughed, was a fond one for him.

But he could not risk it now, and so never had more than a glass, and even then only when necessary for politeness’ sake.

Or when he needed just a bit of relaxation, something to soothe his nerves. It was not difficult to decide which it had been this time.

Claude looked at him across the table, quiet for a long moment. Hubert looked back. He had known when he took action against Dumaine that Claude would not approve, and he was ready for whatever consequences there may be.

The silence stretched into another moment, and then Claude sighed and closed his eyes, shoulders slumping. “I want to be angry at you,” he said. “I _am_ angry at you, Hubert, and I have a hundred reasons for it.” He opened his eyes again, looking at Hubert. There was a spark of anger in them, but more than that there was weariness. Weariness and something else, something Hubert could not place, for all the work he’d done to learn how to read the light in Claude’s eyes.

“Yes,” Hubert said. “I knew you would be angry, and I’m sorry for that. But -”

“But you’re not sorry for what you did,” Claude said, because as well as he knew Claude, Claude knew him. “You think it was the right thing to do. You think it was necessary - pushing a man into killing himself. Did you torture him too? How many people did you destroy, to get to him?”

“Not that many,” Hubert said, which was the truth. Claude’s lips quirked, a wry smile.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” Claude said.

“No,” said Hubert, “you didn’t.”

It sat between them for a moment, that truth taking up space in the room. Then Claude sighed and ran a hand through his hair, disarranging it so that strands fell around his face. Hubert resisted the urge to lean over the table and push it back, out of Claude’s eyes. He had done so before, but he could not yet tell whether Claude’s anger would allow him close.

“I never wanted to start doing that,” Claude said, and his eyes were distant now. “I’m not saying I’m squeaky clean - you of all people know better than that - but assassination…” He shook his head. “It’s one thing when it’s a man like that. We would have executed him for treason in any case. But do it once, and it’s easy to justify it again. And then where does it stop?” He sharpened then, looking at Hubert. “My political opponents? People we don’t like? An heir who might be in the way?”

“I would not target a child, my lord.”

“I know,” Claude sighed, “but it isn’t because you think it’s wrong. It’s because I wouldn’t like it.”

Hubert bowed his head in silent agreement. He was who he was. He would burn cities and expose the darkest of secrets if Claude wished it. He would soak his hands with blood, lay bodies at the feet of his lord, and he could not imagine ever regretting it. But he also knew what was a step too far. He knew what would anger Claude, and what would dance close to the line of being unforgivable.

Targeting a child, like Claude had once been targeted, would be dangerously close to that line. Perhaps not over it, depending on the circumstance - his lord valued survival over nearly anything - but extremely close. Hubert could do something like this, kill a man like Dumaine, and receive only anger and disappointment in return. He had known that when he had begun.

And it pleased him, really, that Claude was upset. Claude was practical, Claude could be ruthless, Claude had not paused for a moment before using the man’s death for his political gain. He never would, and Hubert admired that. But he admired Claude’s compassion as well, admired the depths of him that could even find some small amount of pity for a man like Dumaine.

“I will never allow anyone to threaten you like that,” Hubert said.

Some of the tension went out of Claude’s shoulders - unnoticeable to anyone who hadn’t studied him for years. He looked at Hubert and the shreds of anger there were gone, turned into something else. Something Hubert had seen before, again and again over the years they had spent together.

It was a sort of amazement, a kind of confusion. It was the way Claude looked whenever Hubert pledged his loyalty so clearly - as if there was a part of him that did not believe it. And perhaps there was. Hubert didn’t mind. Claude had never properly learned to trust, and even if he never did, Hubert would never betray him.

“I know,” Claude said, and his voice was quiet. The silence stretched for a moment until Claude looked away, and then his voice was lighter, a little exasperated. “But you know, I’m trying to change hearts and minds out here, not kill them.”

Hubert considered for a moment, weighed his options. And then he said what he really thought, what he thought Claude knew also. “Some, you will have to kill.”

Claude laughed, and though it was a humorless thing, Hubert knew it wasn’t entirely false. “I know. War is coming, though I’m trying to put it off as long as I can. Trying to meet it with a united front - and that’s really the most annoying thing.” He leaned back in his chair, watching Hubert from under lowered eyelashes. “Dumaine’s death has done more to push us towards unity than all of my dinners with Gloucester, all of our long arguments over the roundtable. Goneril is horrified by their underhandedness - between that and his desire to make up for his daughter abandoning us to stand by Edelgard, he’s so firmly in our corner he might as well swear fealty. Edmund and Ordelia can see Gloucester’s star falling, and Gloucester himself knows he’ll either need to defect immediately, which he’s not ready to do, or change his plans entirely.”

Claude looked away, his voice softening. “So what are my morals for, then? You know, I never felt like I had that many. I’ve already been using your spy network to undermine the others, bring them closer to my way of thinking. I’ve been supporting the rebels in Faerghus under their noses, and I’ve even staged some false attacks along the border to keep the lords there from trusting the Empire too much. I drew the line at assassinations - but now it’s hard to see why. One death and the Alliance is practically in the palm of my hand.”

He sounded sad. He sounded speculative, too, as if the prospect of everything he had chosen not to do so far was opening up new pathways.

“It isn’t as if I don’t already have blood on my hands,” Claude said, his lips twisting into a wry smile. “Why should I flinch from a little more?”

“This blood is not on your hands,” Hubert said. He caught Claude’s gaze, held it steady. “It was my decision. All that I do, I do in your name - but you bear no responsibility for the actual decisions I make, if you did not order them.”

“The other lords wouldn’t agree,” Claude said, but he didn’t look away. “I’m not sure _I_ agree. Besides - you shouldn’t have to soak yourself in blood to keep me clean.”

“You misunderstand,” Hubert said. He rose from his chair, circled the table, and knelt next to Claude. He lowered his head. Once, years ago, he had done this - Claude had been so young then, wide-eyed, untrusting. Hubert had been young too, but he had already chosen his path. He would never waver. “To do so for you, my lord, is my greatest pleasure.”

Claude sighed, a soft thing, and Hubert felt fingers on his chin. With a firm touch, Claude tilted his head up and leaned down, bridging the distance between them and pressing his lips to Hubert’s.

It was a sweet kiss and a long one. Claude’s lips tasted faintly of the wine he’d drunk, and when he finally pulled away, Hubert felt a sharp pang, a desire for more. He looked up at Claude, but did not reach for him. Not yet.

“I used to think loyalty like yours was impossible.” Claude’s voice was soft, just for him, just for the two of them. “I thought you would surely betray me someday, that it was a ploy, an attempt to get past my defenses. But I was wrong. And I am glad for it.” He smiled then, a touch wry but still so true. “There must be something wrong with me, you know. I’m not disturbed by how willing you are to kill for me - instead it just makes my heart flutter like a maiden’s.”

Hubert smiled, and then he did reach for Claude. Nothing more than a hand sliding up his calf to hook under his knee and tug, gently. He obeyed Claude in all things, let him dictate their encounters, would never press unwelcome advances - and yet he did not, _could_ not try to pretend that he didn’t have desires of his own.

And Claude von Riegan was the crux of all of them.

“Then I will be your knife in the dark, when necessary,” Hubert said, and Claude slid from his chair to join Hubert there on the floor, kissing him again and again.

The floor was stone, but covered in a thick and colorfully embroidered rug. It meant that once Hubert had stripped Claude of his clothing and pressed him to the floor, he was cushioned, his bare skin safe from the cool hard stone, and Hubert could properly worship him. He dragged his mouth along the line of Claude’s collarbone, trailed fingers over the soft skin of his inner thighs, listened to his lord gasp with the pleasure of it.

Claude allowed him to take his time, encouraged him with soft words and quiet moans. He arched up against Hubert, and when he couldn’t take it anymore he tugged at Hubert’s clothing until they were both bare before each other. 

Hubert knew every scar on Claude’s skin, every freckle, every birthmark. He mapped them out with hands and mouth and tongue, ignoring his own desire heavy between his legs - ignoring Claude’s, too, touching every part of him except his cock. It wasn’t often that Claude let him indulge himself like this, and he wanted Claude to ache for him, wanted to make Claude crave every touch.

By the time he had Claude gasping beneath him, legs spread, Hubert was barely hanging on to the last shreds of his own self-control. It was an effort to pull away long enough to retrieve a vial of oil, but an effort well worth it when Claude moaned at the first press of a finger into him. After those years together, Hubert knew what Claude liked, and there was little he enjoyed more than providing it.

And so Claude, slimly muscled and strong, pulled his knees up, and Hubert worked him open. Then finally he was able to push into Claude, to feel the way Claude arched against him and pushed back, taking him deeper. He was tight - they hadn’t done this in awhile - and Hubert nearly lost himself. He had to pause for a moment, braced above Claude, looking at the gorgeous picture his lord made. Head throw back, throat working as he cried out, hands reaching for Hubert, wanting more.

As soon as he could, Hubert gave it to him. He moved, they moved together, Hubert thrusting into Claude and Claude pushing back, every movement impressing itself on Hubert’s emotions, his thoughts, whatever was left of his blackened heart.

It was all Claude’s, in any case.

It lasted forever, but never long enough. Hubert clung to his composure only long enough to wrap a hand around Claude’s cock and push him over the edge, and then he was following, gasping as he spilled his seed inside Claude.

Afterward, Claude limp and relaxed with pleasure, Hubert tried to move away. He was thinking of a cloth, a basin of water, cleaning them both up. Getting Claude into bed, instead of forcing him to lay on the floor. But Claude caught his arm and pulled him back, shaking his head in silent refusal. He lifted his other hand, tracing the line of Hubert’s jaw, and then Claude kissed him again.

It was tender, searching. Hubert did not know how to respond to it, but when Claude pulled away, he looked pleased.

“This once,” he said, “allow me.”

Hubert could do nothing else, when it was Claude requesting it. It felt odd to see Claude clean himself up, odd to watch him bring the cloth to Hubert and wash his skin clean as well. Though they had slept together any number of times before, still it felt odd when Claude drew him to the bed, pressed him to the soft pillows, and curled up next to him.

Odd. A little overwhelming. But Hubert could not have said he disliked it.

Claude turned Hubert’s face to his again, sure fingers against his cheek, and kissed him.

“I won’t ask you to do those things for me,” Claude said. His voice was soft but his eyes were alive. “But if you choose to -” He paused then, seeming to search for words, and when he found them he sounded certain. Sure of himself - of them both. “I trust you more than anyone in this world.”

Hubert smiled. He would not waste that, the most precious gift he had ever been given.

He would do whatever was necessary to bring Claude the future that he desired.


End file.
